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Police Brutality
[Ed. note: The following is the first portion of Chapter 1 of a new book by Jeannette Lukasse, who, along with her husband, Johan, ministers to street children in Brazil. The complete Chapter 1 and information on how to order the book may be found at www.ywamconnect.com/sites/childrenatrisk
Children at Risk is one of the themes for the University of the Nation's upcoming Synergy 2003 workshop in Singapore. Go to www.synergy2003.com for more information on how to register.]
Suddenly a group of angry police officers surrounded our ministry team on a downtown sidewalk. The ragtag street children who were huddled around the team jumped up and bolted. Two of the smaller ones weren’t quite fast enough. A skinny officer, his bony face contorted with rage, grabbed them both by the scruffs of their necks and, yelling obscenities, hit their little heads with a thud against a concrete wall. The children collapsed on the littered pavement. Now the police officer really lost control and moved in on Mati, one of our team members.
It was eleven o’clock Friday night. As was their practice, a few members of our staff had gone to the downtown area of Belo Horizonte. They knew the children’s favorite hangouts, and soon twenty-five or so hungry, grimy street children were gathered around them. The team doled out sandwiches and chocolate milk to the children and bandaged some of their open wounds. Then they all sat down on the pavement in small groups and played board games and checkers.
Julio, the team leader that evening, strummed his guitar and patiently explained some basic chords to a little boy. With his long, slender fingers, he created beautiful music. Fascinated, the little guy watched him and then, with great concentration, tried to bend his dirty, stubby fingers over the guitar strings.
In spite of the late hour, the large red-and-blue city buses were still crowded. Each time a bus rumbled past, the little group was enveloped in putrid exhaust fumes. Pop music blared from the many rundown bars. Bright neon signs pulsated through the stifling night air, inviting customers to the drab tables and folding chairs on the narrow sidewalk. The legion of children who lived here were used to this chaos of odors and sounds and colors. After all, this was their home. They played, eat, and slept on the streets.
Julio scanned the motley group around him. His charges were quiet tonight, he observed, obviously enjoying the games and the attention. That quietness was rudely shattered, however, with the arrival of the incensed law officers.
One tall, angry police officer zeroed in on Mati, a young, muscular Samoan. Two other officers wildly kicked and hit anyone within reach.
Quickly Julio jumped up but could not avoid several blows before he reached Mati.
“Stop!” he yelled. “We’re missio—”
Wham! A well-aimed punch hit Julio right in the face. The frenzied police officers seemed determined to beat everyone to a pulp. More patrol cars, sirens shrieking, pulled up. Dodging blows, Julio and his team tried to explain that they were missionaries and hadn’t done anything wrong, but the enraged law officers appeared to be completely out of control and in no mood to listen to anyone.
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